


Combat Training

by Maggiemaye



Series: Under the Mountain [7]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bullying, Gen, dad!Kili
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:19:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggiemaye/pseuds/Maggiemaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The practice of combat often involves injury; Kili himself has sustained many a black eye and split lip during his own training. Still, it is altogether different to see his son in such a state.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combat Training

Kili remembers the births of each of his children with vivid clarity. He looks back fondly on their years as tiny dwarflings (though he does not miss the lack of sleep that came with them.) And now that they are getting older, it amuses him to see how little their personalities have changed.

Nethelion had been born screaming, his long limbs pinwheeling in all directions, the coarse dark hair of Durin's folk already thick on his tiny head. Kili and Tauriel had rather hoped he might calm down before he learned to walk, but this wasn't to be; he had practically skipped walking altogether in favor of sprinting, climbing, and jumping. Dis had laughed herself hoarse over those years, often saying it was like watching a miniature Kili. Nethelion is nearing thirty-five now, right in the thick of adolescence, and he is still all fire and energy and quick temper. Kili is often amazed that one person can hold so _much._ But he remembers how volatile he had often been at Nethelion’s age, and he has to admit that Dis is entirely right about their similarities.

Eronel could have been a twin to his older brother, they were so alike in appearance at birth. But unlike Nethelion, Eronel had always preferred to stay quiet, watching his brother's dwarfling antics rather than participating. His calm had been unnerving to much of his family, but over time they had grown accustomed to him, learning to read his moods based on the barest hint of expression on his face. It is obvious to any who meet Eronel now that he has a maturity beyond his thirty years. Kili takes great joy in watching Tauriel interact with this son, almost without even speaking, a deep understanding passing between them. They have the same tight-lipped little smile.

Rhuna, their princess, was destined from the beginning to be a little spoiled. She is loud, eager, and quick to laugh, her disposition as sunny as her blonde hair and beard. The entirety of the mountain, along with her doting father, had been wrapped around her little finger as soon as they caught a glimpse of her. Rhuna is twenty-four now, plenty old enough to braid her own hair and roam the mountain by herself. Kili’s breath catches in his throat sometimes when he looks at her, realizing that in a couple of decades his little girl will be practically grown.

And Therin, their little one. Sweet Therin had been born twelve years ago with a contented grin on his face, oblivious to the fact that he’d been at the center of a fear spiral. His birth had brought Tauriel to the limit of her capacity to bear; the healers had feared both for her life and the babe's. He would be their last child.

“It’s good we had so many of them, then,” he’d said lightly to Tauriel after his birth, watching him flex his tiny fists in his sleep. “They’ll never be lonely.”

“They will be lonely together,” she had replied, pale and wan, on the edge of her healing trance.

Putting it down to exhaustion delirium, Kili had not understood this comment at the time. He still doesn’t, until the day he enters their family living quarters to find his eldest son trying to staunch a bloody lip.

Nethelion looks up at his father like a deer caught by a hunter. Kili tries not to seem alarmed by the sight of the white cloth stained with blood, or the wicked bruise forming at his right eye. Nethelion has begun training with the other young dwarves his age, in hopes of one day joining the guard. The practice of combat often involves injury; Kili himself has sustained many a black eye and split lip during his own training. Still, it is altogether different to see his son in such a state. He is seated on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. As much as his stomach clenches, Kili doesn’t make a fuss over it, knowing that it would only embarrass him further.

“Here, son. This will help,” he says, going to retrieve some of Tauriel’s mysterious herbs. She keeps enough of them stored in the mountain that Kili knows them all by sight, if not by name.

“Adad, no.” Nethelion shakes his head, wincing as he struggles to get the words out. “I was going to go see Oin—“

“Nah, we don’t need Oin. Not when we have your mother’s tricks. But don’t tell Oin I said that, of course.” Kili has ground the herbs up into a paste, which he hands to Nethelion. “Just put this on your lip. It’ll be fine in no time.”

Nethelion reaches out a gangly arm to take the bowl, turning away from Kili as he gingerly touches the wound.

“Someone gave you a run for your money today, did they?” he asks lightly, expecting a conversation to develop. Nethelion typically comes home from training eager to tell Kili about every detail. But today he simply nods and shuts his eyes.

“Listen, son. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. We all get clocked every now and again.”

Nethelion attempts to smile; if it looks forced, Kili puts it down to a bruised ego as well as a bloody lip. Clearly, though, his son is not inclined to further talk. Kili retreats to his bedchamber to give him a bit of space. Perhaps he can draw Nethelion out a bit more later that evening.

 

 

* * *

 

Nethelion lets out a heavy sigh as soon as his father leaves, leaning gingerly backwards to lie flat on the floor. He had not expected to see anyone home for a while, and the sudden encounter has him rattled. Deceit is not his strong suit. He is grateful, at least, that his father had jumped to the obvious conclusion of a routine training injury; it made it much easier for Nethelion to bend the truth.

He has a few moments of peace before he hears the front door open and a feminine gasp fill the room. Rhuna’s voice carries through the entire quarters, and Nethelion winces at her volume as she tromps toward him.

“Not again!” She plunks herself down to sit at his side, reaching for his face but hesitating to touch. Eronel takes his other side a moment later, leaning heavily on his cane so that he can stretch his bad leg out before him. He has moved more slowly and quietly, but looks no less outraged than their sister.

“Rhuna, shut up!" he hisses, as best he can through his swollen, throbbing lip. "Adad will hear you!”

“Well, maybe it’s time he heard. Maybe he and Amad should know.” Rhuna is adamant.

“We swore, remember? You know it would just make trouble for Uncle."

"But they'd want to know! Uncle would put a stop to it if he knew the Iron Hills dwarves were"

"If you say anything, I swear by Mahal—“

“What happened today? How did it start?” Eronel’s voice interrupts, stopping the squabble before it can begin.

"Can you not leave me alone for one moment?" Nethelion snaps, scowling at his brother. Instantly he feels an uncomfortable twist of guilt. He knows when he is acting like a child, which is honestly far too often. But all he wants at the moment is to sulk by himself. His siblings mean well, but their concern chafes and smothers him.

Eronel frowns at him, in that elvish way he has. Their mother is the reigning master of this soul-piercing look, but it comes naturally to Eronel as well. Nethelion shifts uncomfortably but remains silent. He knows that he will have to give in eventually--he owes them an explanation--but he lets his dwarvish stubbornness hold out a while longer.

Rhuna produces a comb from the pocket of her dress and moves behind her injured brother, working the tangles from his hair. He winces as she tugs his locks, but doesn't tell her it hurts. Instead he just sits quietly, feeling much of his tension leave him. This is their ritual, the sons and daughter of Erebor’s spare prince. Any hurt, real or imagined, is soothed with a braid. They fight amongst themselves on a daily basis, but apologies always come with a comb and beads, and all is forgiven. When Therin is old enough to learn how to braid, they will include him in it as well.

"Thanks, khazush," he says quietly.

"Mm-hm. Now start talking." Rhuna grins and nudges his shoulder with hers.

Nethelion sighs. “Dwalin made us tie our hair back today for sparring. And Aunt Corolan’s nephews were there.”

Comprehension quickly begins to dawns over his siblings. Nethelion has long preferred to wear his hair loose when amongst the dwarrow, covering his pointed ears. It is, of course, impossible to hide his elvishness; he is far too tall, wiry, and fluid of movement to ever be mistaken for a full-blooded dwarf. But he tries nonetheless. This is especially so when the Queen Under the Mountain has her kin visit from the Iron Hills. The dwarves there are not nearly so welcoming as the folk of Erebor. It is no coincidence that Nethelion often finds himself involved in conflicts during these visits; the queen's three nephews, all a bit older than Nethelion, are quite vocal in their distaste for elves.

“And then?” Eronel prompts. “What did they do?”

“It was just normal at first. Laughing at my ears, you know. But we started practicing with the wooden swords, and I got hit in the ribs. And they said…” Nethelion stops, anger curling his mouth. The herbs have staunched the bleeding by now, so it is a little easier to express himself.

“They said, ‘Go home to your elf-witch mother, she'll make it better.'"

Eronel flinches. Nethelion thinks that if it weren't for his bad leg, his brother would have sprinted out the door to hunt the queen's nephews himself.

"I wanted to say something right then, but Dwalin grabbed my arm and told me to calm down. So we kept sparring until I got paired up with one of them. And he said he wouldn't spar against a dirty tree-shagging half-breed. And he was just such a smug bastard about it--"

“So you jumped them.” Eronel’s voice is disapproving.

"Technically, I only jumped the one. But his brothers joined in soon enough." Bitter sarcasm enters his tone. The rage is building inside him again, he can feel it. Sometimes he just gets so angry and so tense that he doesn't know what to do but let it explode out of him.

"Nethelion, why couldn't you have just ignored them?" his brother asks.

“I had to do something! I'm supposed to just sit there while they call us names?"

"You're not supposed to get yourself beaten up."

"If that's what it takes to defend us, then I will! I'll take any beating I have to." Nethelion does not understand how his brother can be so maddeningly calm all the time. Maybe it is the elf patience in him, a trait that Nethelion sorely lacks. Or maybe it is the fact that Eronel has not had cause to interact much with the Iron Hills dwarves on his own, and neither has Rhuna. His siblings do not practice the art of combat. Since the queen’s nephews are warriors, Nethelion is the one they antagonize. It is easy for Eronel to suggest taking the high road; outside of dirty looks and whispered comments at mealtimes, he is shielded from much of the abuse. Nethelion will keep it that way, if he can, but sometimes his brother's naiveté is bothersome.

"Stop fighting, both of you," Rhuna says from behind his head. Normally they both find it funny when she gets stern, but no one is in the mood to laugh right now. "We stick together, remember? We need to--"

"Wait," Eronel says, frowning. "Nethelion, what do you mean, defend _us?_ What else aren't you saying?"

Nethelion's stomach drops. He swallows hard, avoiding his brother's unnerving gaze and saying nothing.

He does not often feel the burden of being the eldest child. The age difference between himself, Eronel, and Rhuna is so minimal that it doesn't matter most of the time. But today he feels much, much older than either of them. How can he look his brother in the eye and repeat the ugly, ignorant things those dwarrow had said about his limp and cane? _Half-breeds come out deformed,_ they had jeered, loudly enough for everyone to hear. _Mahal knows what the rest of the mutts are hiding._

And Rhuna. His blood still boils to remember the crude comments they had made about his sister. She is too young and too innocent to hear their filth, he decides.

They are best friends, the three of them. But Nethelion knows that he bears an extra responsibility to protect them. If he takes the beatings, then maybe Eronel and Rhuna will never have to hear any ugliness from the Iron Hills dwarrow. If he ever hears a false word against Therin, he will fight just as hard in his defense. That is his job. So he looks back at Eronel and remains silent.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kili wonders, very briefly, whether it is wrong to eavesdrop on his children. But as Nethelion launches into his story, he decides that he doesn't care and presses his ear to the bedchamber door. The tale unfolds, and Kili grows more and more unsettled until he decides he has heard enough.

“All right.” All three of them jump as Kili emerges from his room. “Who is ‘they’?”

They glance at each other, caught, frozen.

"Adad," Eronel finally says. "You...heard."

"Well, you weren't exactly keeping your voices down." Kili is trying to keep a lid on his anger—not at his children, of course, but at those who would harm them. Apparently royalty means nothing to these bold, very foolish dwarrow. Even though his children will not inherit the throne, their status should still guarantee them some respect. Clearly, not everyone has gotten this message.

"Now," he says, seating himself in an armchair. Rhuna, having finished fixing Nethelion's hair, immediately perches on the arm. Kili takes her hand in his own.

"Who is 'they,' you three? Your aunt’s nephews, you said?"

They are reluctant to speak. Nethelion gives a gusty, dramatic sigh, but that is the only answer Kili gets for a long moment. He waits silently, thinking that Tauriel would be proud if she were here to see. Once upon a time, Kili would have demanded answers and rushed off immediately to seek due justice. His wife’s influence has rubbed off on him; she is not the most patient of elves, but even the shortest elven temper can far outlast that of a dwarf.

He waits some more.

"They are cruel," Eronel finally says, surprising Kili with his venom.

"But we don't want Uncle to find out," Nethelion hastens to say. "He has enough to worry about, being king and everything."

"And the Iron Hills dwarves are his kin."

"His _wife's_ kin," Rhuna grumbles.

“We don’t want to make trouble. With the alliance and everything…”

Kili looks at his children carefully, lingering on Nethelion's battered face. Somehow the injury looks worse now that he knows how it truly came to be. Kili wants nothing more than to find these young dwarrow and put the fear of Mahal into their hearts. But how much would it really help Nethelion to have his father fight his battles for him? Kili sighs, hating the feeling of helplessness, hating the fact that his children have to worry about politics, of all things.

"You realize that I cannot keep this from your mother."

It is all he feels able to say.

"Fine. But I can handle this, Adad," Nethelion promises. The statement is undermined a bit by the gigantic shiner on his face, but Kili chooses not to mention this.

"The minute you come home hurt again--"

"We let you off the leash. Promise." His eldest son musters a grin and careful laughter fills the room.

“I just want all of you to be all right,” Kili says on another sigh. “It’s hard see any of you hurt.”

“We’re Durin’s folk,” says Rhuna simply as her brothers nod. “We’re strong enough.”

Kili smiles in spite of himself. He leans up to kiss her temple, locking eyes with both of his sons in turn. They have said they’re all right, and Kili believes them. But the world outside their mountain is cruel at times. One half-elven dwarrow might not be able to face it alone, so he is thankful that his children have each other to turn to for strength. They are, after all, the only beings of their kind in Arda; that anyone knows of, at least.

 _They will be lonely together,_ Tauriel had said, and Kili thinks he finally understands.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! A few things:
> 
> First of all, the word khazush means "sister" if my source is correct. Second of all, thank you so much for reading! The response to my first fic was so flattering :) Hopefully this one didn't disappoint!
> 
> Got any ideas for Kiliel/family moments you'd like to see? Shout them out in the comments, friends!


End file.
